


Tastes Like

by monaboyd_archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-01
Updated: 2004-06-01
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7720693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monaboyd_archivist/pseuds/monaboyd_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apples are perfect for you</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tastes Like

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the [Monaboyd.net Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Monaboyd.net), which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Monaboyd_Archive/profile).

 

**Chocolate**

Orlando is chocolate. Everything about him is smooth, sensual, dark and forbidden and sweet. You like him, you want him, you desire him, just like every other person to ever lay eyes on him has, does, will. And when you look at him, you see chocolate, thick melting waves of rich brownness that roll over your skin, warm and sticky.

He's completely gorgeous. And you can't take your eyes from him. Can't help but to follow him, to watch his lips smile and his eyes brighten and his hands flutter. Yummy, is what you think, and you can't help the embarrassed blush on your face at the thought. Yummy. Sounds so immature and juvenile, something a child says while biting into an ice cream cone before crying with the 'brain freeze' that soon follows. Sounds like something an adolescent girl says at a band concert, wearing too much eye make-up and not enough clothing as she jumps up and down, screaming with her friends, more at the lead guitarist's mesh shirt than anything. But that's what Orlando is. Yummy. Like chocolate.

His eyes. Everybody talks about Elijah's eyes, wants to know if he wears contacts, if someone re-touches the film. And they are very lovely eyes. But they are not Orlando's eyes. Orlando's eyes...oh, his *eyes*. Everything about him, in him, is played out in them. They fill with both laughter and tears, harden in anger and soften in sympathy. They're bright and affectionate when he punches you in the arm and tells you about how 'fuckin' *awesome*' his latest adventure was and how you 'ought to try it sometime, man!' And then, they're dark and sexual. Telling you and the entire world, what he wants, and they glow with some sort of threatening and still alluring desire.

And when you get close to look, to really *look*, you don't see what anybody else sees. You see the swirling, melting sweetness of milk chocolate. The way his hair curls on the nape of his neck, tendrils of dark chocolate, rough under your fingertips and smelling of something muskier and older than any sort of shampoo. His skin, smooth and taut, marred by scars and scratches, speaking of his clumsy but still unrelenting self, tanned the color of caramel. The golden color of caramel, silky and thick and sweet and found in the center of so many chocolates. The way his limbs coil and unwind, his muscles tense and relax, the way he moves, fluid and graceful the way that melted chocolate spills over your ladle and into the molds as you try to capture the sweetness that is chocolate, that is Orlando. And you know without ever bothering to confirm that Orlando's lips are firm and sweet with a hint of bitterness, like true, untouched chocolate.

Orlando is chocolate.

**Raspberries**

Elijah is raspberries. Bitter and sweet all at once, his laugh high and careless, his eyes old and knowing above the child's smile. Everything about him is like this, the way he smiles, the way he speaks, everything is two-sided, double-edged, sweet, bitter, dull and sharp. He's not like Orlando; he's not like chocolate. You don't want him like you do Orlando; there is nothing forbidden or sexual about raspberries. But there's the underlying twist of flavor, the surprising bitterness or unexpected sweetness. And you can't help but to like this taste of raspberries, the way it lies on your tongue, the way it spreads, sticky and lasting.

He's not what you think of when you think of attractive. His eyes are too big, too blue. His skin is too pale; his hair is too dark. He's too short, too thin, too much of everything. Its overwhelming and you fall into it; fall into his laughter and his eyes and his words and his thoughts. You find yourself watching him, watching how he smiles with his lips and smirks with his eyes, the way he says something but means another. You watch him and you want to think bastard but what you think instead is fascinating. And he is. Elijah fascinates you, fascinates with his unconventional beauty, his alternating sweetness and sharpness, his own mechanisms of success, defense. Fascinating, you think as you watch him, watch as the years fall down upon him, as the age, the weariness creeps into his eyes, his voice, his limbs and Frodo stares out at you. Bittersweet, sticks to you and won't let go. Raspberries.

When you get close enough to Elijah, close enough to look for what no one else sees, you find it. You find the rinds of bitterness in Elijah's eyes; find the sound of it in his voice and it is a biting sort, the kind that takes you by surprise and stings. The way his eyes darken and lighten in the same moment, the way they're unable to decide, the way Elijah can't decide. You see his skin, so pale and smooth beneath your fingers, and you know that it is sweet-tasting, sweet until the tang of salty sweat weaves down his flesh and again - indecisive. Salty or sweet, sweet or salty. The way he's short and compact, the way he's slender but not skinny, the way he's blue-eyed but brown-haired, the way he's Frodo and Elijah. So contradicting, so unpredictable. And when you meet his eyes, when he gives you that small, wistful smile that you know is real, you're sure of it. Sure that Elijah's lips are soft and supple and sweet. And that at the same time, they're rough and firm and bitter. It simply depends on how you look at it.

Elijah is raspberries.

 

**Bread**

Sean is bread. A solid, warm, comforting, unromantic thing. And that's exactly what Sean is. His is body is solid, unyielding, his arms warm and strong around you. His eyes glow with unwavering affection, his smile is quick and sweet. Spending time with Sean is like stepping slowly into a warm bath, the liquid heat slowly washing over you. Gentle waves of comfort and affection and warmth. And you like the familiar density, the unchanging taste and texture of bread. You're satisfied by bread like nothing else.

Sean. You don't want him like want Orlando or even Elijah. He's not gorgeous, exciting like Orlando. Not irregular, distinctive like Elijah. Sean is coming home after a long time away. Like a never-ending embrace, the kind you gave and got when you were a child, before embarrassment and propriety meant anything to you.

You don’t know what it is that draws you to Sean. He’s slightly geeky and sweetly so, so earnest and forthright when he double-checks the double-checking on any and everything to do with safety. He’s a father and it nearly kills you every time you see him with his family because it’s so perfect and so loving and so far from what you have, you’re almost jealous. But not really jealous because you honestly don’t think you could be as selfless and giving as he is. And when you’re close to him, close to the atmosphere of love and happiness and calmness, you wonder why you’re wondering why you’re drawn to him.

You're unsure of where the beauty in Sean lies. If it's his strong, unmoving body. The genuine warmth and love in his eyes, his smile. If its in the welcoming scent of spice and hugs that cling to him. Or if it's the fact that bread is so familiar, so comforting, so needed, that it is beautiful in all shapes and forms. Plain and simple, a staple brimming with unadulterated affection and love. Sean. Bread.

And you know that Sean's lips are a perfect firmness, softness. That they are warm and smooth and tender. That Sean's kiss is like the cinnamon toast and hot chocolate that your mother used to bring you after an afternoon in the snow. Comfort. Warmth. Love.

Sean is bread.

 

**Apples**

Billy is apples. It took you a long time to decipher this, but now that you have - it's so obvious. His eyes are green and in them you see everything and anything that you want to see. You his flaws and imperfections clearly - but you also see very virtue, every good thing to balance Billy out. And you laugh quietly to yourself when you hear someone says a few bad apples makes the sweetest mix.

Because Billy is the sweetest man you know. Sweet is a stupid word and you feel stupid for using it. But it's so true. His smile is slow and sweet and it thrills you to see it. The hairs at the nape of his neck curl softly, tenderly, and the characteristic is sweet to you. But he does have his flaws. You're not blind to them, but you accept them and that makes all the difference. You tease his knobby knees and make jokes about older men. You bitch at him for shutting you out when he's upset. And you've made the dreadful blunder of referring to the kilt as 'that cute skirt-thing'. You know what makes Billy Billy and you love it all, love how he's fresh and crisp, sweet and tart, and shades of red and green.

Sometimes you stand in the middle of the aisle at the grocery and stare, rather stupidly, at all the products that include apples. Applesauce, apple pie, and your favorite, green apple flavored lollipops. And you blush and smile when you think of all that Billy is. Friend. Best friend. Role model. Family. Lover. Confidant. Co-worker. Pippin. And it’s funny to think how so many products come from such a small fruit and it’s even funnier to think of how one person can be so much to another.

You love how his skin is alive beneath your hand. And you don't even have to wonder what his lips are like because he informs you willingly, frequently. Billy's lips are fresh and new and every time you kiss them, they're different. Sometimes soft, sometimes firm. But always delicious, always perfect for you. And you laugh when he muses between ever-changing kisses that you taste like lollipops.[1] That he wonders what the others taste like, if they're as good as you. And you answer back with, of course not, and if you ever catch him tasting anything but lollipops, he's in a shit-load of trouble. Billy laughs and kisses you again.

Chocolate is gorgeous, tempting, seductive.

Raspberries are fascinating, inconstant, bittersweet.

Bread is solid, warm, and comforting.

But apples are perfect for you.

Billy is apples.

::END::

 

 

[1] Lollipops = Dom. Just in case that wasn't clear.


End file.
